Tatter
by Fogs of Gray
Summary: He could have remembered anything. There was certainly enough material. However, from his encounters, he saw the same scenes in the back of his mind. This night, he allows the fraying ends of his control tatter.


Well, I'm new to this fandom's writing. Review? Maybe? Please? I understand we don't get insight into Greg's character a lot, so I did take creative liberty.

Disclaimer: Not mine

Spoilers: Everything

* * *

He knew he shouldn't have been there. He should have been at home, sleeping. Or in a bar, drinking. Either would have made sense. But he was there, sitting at his desk. It wasn't as though he had anything to do. The case was settled. Everyone had left. Even Molly Hooper, the woman who counted, had wished him farewell in her escape.

That was when he noticed something off. Molly, all trussed in her over-stuffed winter coat, gloves and hat, used to make him smile. Even on the darkest nights of winter, there was something childishly innocent in her. The ridiculousness of the thought always tugged a hesitant smile from him.

It couldn't have been Molly; she wore precisely the same outerwear as other years. He had concluded it was a passing thought and tried to leave.

He had tried, he really had. He would make it to the door only to turn around, mumbling about how he had forgotten something. What bull that was, and he knew it.

So, he sat in his office, eyes fixed to the door. Something was wrong. Something was distinctly, horribly wrong. He would have called- His eyes closed in irritation, ending the thought. But _he_ wasn't here.

John was somewhere in London; he hadn't the heart to leave. Maybe he was sitting in 221B in much of a similar state as Lestrade. Even that idea made him flinch.

He wouldn't wish this upon anyone. Whatever _this_ was, it was annoying as hell. More frustrating than the tellie going out right before the winning shot. More frustrating than his ex-wife's tantrums. And, oh, so much more damning.

He couldn't keep a solid train of thought for more than a second. He couldn't leave because of this thing. He couldn't talk in fear of saying the wrong thing. *Who would be listening?* He hadn't the slightest.

He had seen everyone today. Donavan. Anderson. Hooper. Dimmock. John. Mrs. Hudson. Hell, he even had a one-sided conversation with Anthea, or whatever her name was today. He had spoke to everyone he usually did.

And that's when he allowed his head to drop in his hands. Everyone but one. He cursed roughly. Sherlock. Tears pricked at his eyes. Damn it.

That explained why Molly looked different. He saw a sadness that matured her. She had lost her childish tendencies.

That was simple. He didn't know why his thoughts were comparable to a static screen, but he supposed he would get to that eventually. He shot a glance at the clock.

Nearly midnight.

He had enough time for a reunion. Dimmock would understand if he took a few days off, surely.

If he closed his eyes and focused, he could catch glimpses of the last few days with Sherlock in them. But no, those were a dull ache. He suspected the problem was more deeply rooted. A year ago? No. Again, he had no idea why, but further back. The memories flashed, fragments of the same untidy story, until he settled on the one he needed.

The alley. Oh god, he remembered now. The alley just a few blocks from the station, on the way to his home.

_Greg didn't like it. There was something that felt eerily similar to an epiphany in the air, and he didn't need that at the moment. The alley smelled from the second he pulled up. By now, he's used to it. There is something else heavy in the air, though. Something besides decay and mildew. With that in mind, Greg finds himself excited._

_While moving the woman's head to the side, he notices it. What he should be anticipating is beyond him, but he is. He attempts to swallow the itch in the back of his throat._

_"Get her to the lab and check for fingerprints. If it's like the other's we won't find any."_

_"You will. She was a prostitute." Greg finds himself turning toward the man instinctively. His hair is unruly, a mess of dark curls, and it has a sheen to it. Not damp. Oily, as though the chap hadn't the chance to bathe in the last few days. His eyes were a startling blue, some color Greg couldn't identify if he was asked later. He wore an expensive coat that belied his current financial situation. The shadows played on his cheeks._

_The man continued, despite Greg's attempts. "There's a needle mark, although there aren't traces of drugs. Something else then. Maybe the killer took blood and cleaned the injury. Maybe it was a fast acting drug that is by now untraceable." He tilted his head. "She'll have fingerprints on her wrists." His team didn't stop working behind him. A boot squeaked against the wet concrete._

_Greg's lips twitched. Wrists. Not the neck. He turned as the body was lifted into the truck. He walked carefully and steadily, his thoughts not on the murdered woman, but the odd man who had deflected everything Greg had said._

He hadn't shaken that train of thought until he received lab results.

_Somehow, Greg found himself running down the streets of London, glancing down every alley he passed. The idiot was brilliant. Whoever he was, he was right, and that was enough to spark an interest in Greg. The man had to have something to do with the case. A connection to the victim. _Something._ Shuffling through the memories, he couldn't place anything off. Unruly hair. Pale skin. Eyes. Greg snorted. Eyes. That was a help. He couldn't go running around asking for a young man with dark curls and oceans for eyes. He was the Detective Inspector, for God's sake. He was above that._

Greg had lost him for a month. In that month, he found himself rethinking his motives in life. It was a philosophical route he hadn't pursued before. When he found him again, he was beyond worn.

_The scene was similar. Noon. Another alley. Same neighborhood. A woman, same features, slightly younger. Donavan had been disgusted, mumbling something about how horrible men could be. Greg's eyes weren't on the body, though, but the man who stood in the shadows. Something leapt inside him. He walked to the alley, off-handedly inspecting the body. "You're looking for a woman, mid-forties, widowed and having a deceased sibling similar to these women." His eyes had closed._

_"It wasn't an aggressive attack." Greg's tone changed subtly. _Tired already?_ He rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to push away the ache._

_"No, Detective. It was a plea." Greg nodded._

_Greg left again, but this time the man spoke once more. "The name's Sherlock Holmes."_

_"Inspector Lestrade."_

A plea. It had been a plea, a desperate call for help.

_Greg found himself in an odd apartment on the spotty side of town. He didn't know why he came. It wouldn't have helped anyone. But watching the shaking man on the couch, he didn't mind. He didn't mind his wife would tear into him that night with biting accusations. He didn't mind that it would probably be the last time. He didn't care that the itch was coming back, scratching in his thoughts. For once, Greg felt as though he was doing something right._

_He sat next the Sherlock and held his trembling frame. He let him curl next to him. And when Greg's arm numbed, when he bit his tongue to stop from saying something, Sherlock stayed still. They rode out the withdrawal together over the span of a week. They both shared things they shouldn't have, and shouldn't have remembered. His was of his impending divorce. Sherlock's was of a fear of abandonment he had as a child, that he never quite grew out of._

_The last time Greg left, he had murmured, "I'll protect you, lad."_

Out of the jumble of memories, the fragmented, replaying story, his mind latched onto those details. Not how Lestrade had nearly run himself to the ground. Not on the quiver in Sherlock's voice. Or the fact he felt almost paternal in that moment. But on those words. Game. Running. Plea. Protect.

Maybe it was because his mind was itching as it had those days. He was anticipating something again, something wonderfully thunderous. There was a connection in the words, somewhere.

A plea. Sherlock's death hadn't been a pitiful cry. It wasn't a game, and it wasn't running. It was a promise, a swear. It was a jump, a leap. It had been a swan song, mournful and ringing with finality. His death had been the bane of Lestrade's thoughts for the last few days. But the fall.

A sob started in Lestrade's throat. He buried his face in his hands, his nails scraping at his scalp. Somehow the biting pricks of pain took off the edge of the revelation.

The fall. The dive. It was a pled apology, a frantic, desperate, haphazard search for acceptance, for atonement, for forgiveness of an act he had barely committed.

Lestrade allowed himself to shatter in his office that night, under the weight of the revelation. He allowed himself to cry for the man he swore to protect. For the people he touched and left. He cried for Sherlock.


End file.
